Snow Storm (29 page)

********************

Davie had begun a solid
campaign of phoning after the second day. Nothing was happening.
Andy could be huffy, sure, everyone knew that. He liked to hold the
odd grudge, like over the time they’d hidden that old shed of a car
he ran around in behind the silage pit and he hadn’t looked there
because it was impossible to actually drive into the concrete hole.
He hadn’t thought of what they’d actually done, which was to lift
it over on the end of the loader. Ok, so they might have damaged it
slightly, running it through with the forks, but it hadn’t lifted
the first time when they’d tried to slip them under. A few holes
gave it character anyway.

Andy didn’t get that
though, something to do with taking Emma out for the first time
that night, so even when they fessed up he hadn’t spoken to him or
Colin for three days. Come to think of it, the Micra had smelt of
silage for a while after that.

It didn’t
look like he was in a cream puff this time though. Davie called in
to see him three times in the course of the day but not a sign.
He’d eventually run into old Jimmy, the part time worker that lived
at the end of the farm road. Jimmy was a pretty laid back
character, like the types his father liked to describe when he was
three sheets to the wind and got all emotional about the fact there
weren’t any characters around anymore. All the old crocs got like
that, thinking the world was going to hell in a hand basket in the
way the generation before and the generation before that probably
had too.

Jimmy shook his head
regarding the inside of his flat cap as though it were the font of
all knowledge, which it maybe was. “I’ve no seen hide nor hair of
him son. There’s no been any sign of the lights anyway. The
sister’s back at vet school and faither’s away his
holidays.”

“
Aye, ah ken
that,” Davie replied, feeling a pang of what he was worried might
be guilt, an emotion he found inconvenient at the best of
times.

“
Well, he’ll
no be happy if he gets back and the young yin hasnae pulled his
weight.”

Davie nodded his
agreement as he placed a foot up on the gate and lit a fag. The
pair of them stared off into the frozen stock yard.

“
What you
been up to?” Jimmy asked, knowing full well that all was not as it
seemed.

“
Nothing too
bad.”

“
Yir an awfa
boy tae be yin boy,” the old man said, shaking his head as though
he had seen it all before and doubtless would again.

They stood for a while
longer, contemplating nothing very much before Davie made his
excuses, got back in the Peugeot and headed back to the
ranch.

He could only
think of one other possibility and that was one he didn’t want to
acknowledge just yet. He had to clear out his head in the time
honoured fashion before he could do that.

After a couple of Stellas
and half a packet of Benson and Hedges he got the bit between his
teeth and dialled the number. She seemed brighter than the last
time they’d spoken, but that was only until she heard his name. The
cloud had quickly spread over the conversation at that point. Her
hackles were well and truly up after those two
syllables.

He’d never
totally gotten on with Andy’s girlfriend, and that was before
they’d split up. Now he was most definitely persona non grata, the
devil incarnate. No, she hadn’t seen him and wouldn’t, if she
happened to have the misfortune to lay eyes on the philandering
bastard, approach him for fear of what she might actually do. He
didn’t like to ask what she might do but imagined it probably
involved sharp objects and his friend’s eyes or worse. He didn’t
want to picture worse, so he thanked her for her time, which going
on the snorting sound she made, was likely taken as sarcasm, and
said goodbye. He wasn’t sure why but she seemed to blame him
somehow. He’d been blamed by a few ex-girlfriends in his time, but
then that was what guys did, blamed any kind of wild irrational or
inexcusable behaviour they could on a best mate. Better to be
innocent and led astray than an actual bastard.

This all seemed to be
leading down one road. If it was even possible.

********************

Burke called
by the flat on the way back to the station. He had a fair idea
Rachel might have something to stem the flow of the bleeding, which
stubbornly refused to let up.

“
Oh I have,”
she said with a knowing look. “Some advice. Go to A and
E.”

“
I haven’t
got time,” he pleaded.

“
No,” was all
she said, before digging out a collection of cotton wool, sticking
plasters and a bottle of Dettol.

He gritted
his teeth as she applied an antiseptic soaked pad to the gaping
wound on his hand and the pain shot up to his elbow. By rights, he
felt it ought to have cauterised the wound, given the searing
nature of the sting. No matter. It would offer some kind of
protection for the time being.

He turned to
thank her and noticed the bags piled high in the bedroom
door.

“
It’s what
you wanted isn’t it?” she asked.

“
Yes," he
replied, knowing that it was the only answer. “It’s
not…”

“
No, I know,”
she said. It never is. “You’ve got to do what needs to be
done.”

“
But…”

“
I’ve seen
the letters James.”

“
Letters?”

“
Did you
think they’d only sent one? Oh no. There have been a few now,” she
said, smiling coldly.

“
Oh.”

“
Yes.”

“
Do you need
a lift to the station?” he asked, searching for something, anything
to say.

“
There’s a
taxi on the way,” she said, folding her arms tight across the top
of her substantial bump, as though bracing against a cold wind.
“We’ll talk later.”

He made his
way back to the car where Jones was waiting, arguing with someone
on the phone by the looks of it. Was this a common theme in their
line?

“
Other half?”
he asked, reading her pensive expression.

“
For now,”
came the response.

He dumped a
bag at her feet. “There’s food in there if you’re desperate,” he
said feeling guilty that he should allow anyone else to eat the
pasta his wife had made for him only a couple of days before, when
everything had seemed so much more normal.

Jones must
have got the hint as she seemed to steer around his dinner,
settling instead on another package in the bag. “What’s this?” she
asked, pulling out a rolled up newspaper. It was bound in brown
paper and hand addressed with the requisite amount of stamps on the
other side.

“
Local rag
from back home. My gran sends it to me once a week, thinks it keeps
me grounded up here in the big smoke.”

“
It’s good to
stay grounded I suppose.”

On arrival at
the station it turned out “Your Mother” had secured legal
representation in the jelly like form of Dougie Jamieson, the duty
solicitor who was on call to the criminals of the parish at the
most inconvenient of hours. Burke often wondered what Jamieson had
done to deserve such a fate, something sinister? Or perhaps some
kind of faux pas at a law society dinner that now saw him reduced
to the rank of social leper for the rest of his days. Or maybe it
was just the fact that he was a fat tub of lard with chronic BO, a
suit that was so cheap it crackled with static when he walked and
all the social skills of a sewer rat.

His attacker was
technically called Stuart McColm, according to his birth
certificate and ID. Although there being no law of deed poll in
Scotland he could be addressed as whatever he liked.

Interview room two was
cold and Burke thought it was best to leave the lardy lawyer and
the teenage cat burglar to relax and acclimatise to the conditions
for a while. The cold would doubtless make them both that bit more
jumpy, though Jamieson was considerably better insulated than the
sylph like McColm. Having checked his record, the kid had form; a
caution for possession of cannabis and a fine for breach of the
peace a year before. Nothing serious on the surface but reading a
bit further he discovered the breach of the peace was related to
his occupation of the time, that of rent boy and suspected drug
pusher.

Burke cut straight to the
chase. “Who was with you?” he demanded, only to be rebuffed with an
uncooperative response. No one liked a grass, especially those of a
more professional criminal persuasion. “I suppose they had the
laptop,” he continued.

“
I don’t know
fuck all about the laptop,” the boy answered wrinkling his brow and
folding his arms, succeeding only in looking more
teenage.

“
But there
was a laptop. You don’t deny that,”

“
No, well
maybe, so what. I’m telling you nothing piggy.”

“
There’s no
need to be like that,” Jones cut in as Burke tried his best to look
offended. “You sliced Inspector Burke’s hand open. It’s doubtful
he’ll ever be able to knit again.”

McColm looked confused
for a second and then let out a snigger.

“
He’s been
pretty understanding about this all Stuart. It isn’t like we want
much in return.”

Stuart looked
at his fingernails which were in need of a good clean, before
shifting his gaze to Jones who gave him her best I’m a reasonable
woman look back. “What’s gonna happen to me?” he asked in a voice
that had a pitch to match his whingey demeanour.

His ginger
hair dyed blonde and his tango tan did nothing to detract from the
effect. It was no wonder he’d felt the need to wear a mask. He
might have glowed in the dark otherwise. Burke got the sense he
hadn’t been forgiven for the blow to the side of the head. He was
an authority figure, one in a long line this kid had undoubtedly
come up against in his nineteen years, starting with the drunken
waster father who had beaten him and his mother black and blue on a
regular basis before buggering off and leaving them to fend for
themselves in Sighthill. Sure, there were decent members of society
everywhere but there were forgotten people out there too, people
that didn’t play by the same rules as the general population, and
it was hard to know right from wrong when you’d been beaten
regardless of what you did from a young age.

Jones had a
way of softening up witnesses. He had to hand it to her. She worked
them like some kind of prize fighter, softening them up with a few
body blows before continuing with the full on cranial assault just
to finish the job. Timing was everything. She had him talking now,
about how he’d left home at a young age, wasn’t much worse than the
flat in Sighthill anyway freedom to be who you really were, that
was the thing.

“
It isn’t you
we’re after, is it? That’s what you’ve got to remember,” she
said.

He nodded his
head.

“
I mean you
didn’t kill Oleg Karpov did you?”

He shook his
head.

“
For the
benefit of the tape please Stuart.”

The boy grunted in the
negative, before looking like he was going to cry.

“
You were
there though. And my guess is, you know who did.”

His head
dropped onto the table and he cradled it in his arms, letting out a
sigh that seemed to go on for longer than lung capacity should have
allowed. “I was there,” he said, an air of desperation in his
voice, “but I really don’t know who did it.”

“
What did you
see?”

“
Everything,
but nothing that can help,” he said rubbing his hair nervously
before covering his face with his elbows. “They were wearing
masks.”

“
Like the
kind of masks you were wearing tonight?”

“
Yes. No. It
wasn’t us, I swear.” He looked pleadingly into her eyes.

“
Who is us
Stuart?”

“
Me and a
friend. It’s not important. He knows nothing I don’t.”

“
Why don’t
you tell us and we can interview him? Then at least we can find out
for ourselves. It’s important we find out what happened.” She
paused for a second. “Why did you go back for the
laptop?”

“
I don’t
know.”

“
But your
friend did? Does that tell us something about how much more he knew
than you? Or maybe you thought the CCTV footage on a laptop shows
more than you can have out there in the big wide world. Maybe
there’s something there to incriminate you.”

“
No!” he
shouted. “Neither of us knows more than the other did. We were in
this together. We just wanted the laptop.”

“
Why?” she
demanded.

“
I don’t even
know right. That’s the thing. He didn’t say. We just knew he was
working for the Russian.”

“
The
Russian?” Both the detectives’ ears pricked up at this.

Burke who had begun to
daydream a little along with the soundtrack was now fully focussed
on the ginger youth. “What Russian Stuart?”